DISCLAIMERS: Nobody, and I mean nobody, in this fic belongs to me, except for Jacund, who would be me. At least, on the weekends, when my brain gets custody of my body. And yes, this is a parody, but of what I'm not exactly sure, yes, you can stop looking at your computer screen like that, I am fairly sane. This is just random silliness I decided I had to write.

Wind whipped up dust in lazy swirls and whorls and whirls and various other words ending in "-rls". Jacund paused, holding his Subreality Map of Places to See ("All ye placefof worth in what domaine if knowene af Subreality, and howe exactly onne canne avoide Lourd Abyfs' flipperef, a dollar-fifty") up to the light, squinting ferociously. It didn't help any.

He Sighed, a totally different act than sighing, which was the mere exhalation of air from the lungs usually associated with feelings of depression or weariness. That was the problem with Subreality. Reality had no jurisdiction here, ever since the class action lawsuit Subreality & Kielle had filed against Reality & Marvel. And as such, even a simple thing like sighing was changed. It became Sighing.

And this deal with the light! "Due to the varying fluctuations of belief and unbelief present in Subreality, in concomitance with Quantum," Jacund's Map said, "there is no such thing as a singular, autochthonous state of being. Subreality is exactly what its name implies: beyond what Writers perceive as normal Reality. Stray outside of the 'tamed' domains at your own risk, as wild thesauri, unmanifested figments, and other strange things lurk in Subreality's shadows." A Hank McCoy had written that, and his voice was warm and vaguely fuzzy. That was another thing about Subreality. In the real world, Jacund had never known of any maps that spoke when you pressed pictures. At least, not maps that could come apart in water. But the light...somehow, it was both night and day at the same time. It gave Jacund an eerie feeling, a strange dichtomy that pressed against him at all times; the closest he had ever come to such a sensation in the "real world" was in Nuark.

Jacund shook his head, his look black-red bangs falling in his eyes again. Damn. He did need a haircut. True, he did look sort of like Sandy Dalal, but...With a thought, he wrote a bottle of gel into existence for himself. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, the full moon and noon sun at his back, he continued on his way down the road to Subreality.

The Bouncer stood grim-faced and stubborn before the door to the Café, wishing just once that he could be written as someone other than a brawny, musclebound freak. Well, some writers did do him justice, and in one memorable fic, he had even given a LeBeau a run for his money in the charm department of the Subreality Mall, but sadly, nobody had seen fit to put that one up anywhere. Oh, well. At least he was capable of a perspective in this fic. Who was this Writer? Jacund? The Bouncer shook his head, reflecting on the astounding abundancy of one-hit wonders (or not quite so wonderous, as the Bouncer had heard about some) that had begun to filter into the Café. It wasn't fair anymore. It was getting to the point where good established writers like Kielle, Tapestry, and Falstaff, may Their Sacred Trinity persevere, couldn't even get proper valet service; daft biddies were swarming in by the dozen, cramming the parking lot with Ferraris, tanks, and other various modes of transportation that Writers only had access to in Subreality. New Writers. Ugh. Quietly, circumventing the current Writer's protocol, the Bouncer sent a prayer up to the Subreality Trinity in the hope that Jacund would prove to be at least capable of writing a good fic.

As if on cue, a slightly befuddled, slightly bedraggled figure bedecked in plain denim jeans and a white tee-shirt came staggering up the road. Dirt and dust rose up in clouds around him, ostensibly because of the fluctuations in Subreality but, more likely, for dramatic effect. Oh, by Kielle. The Bouncer had seen this type of entrance before. Weary traveler collapses at the door to Subreality, only to wake up with the Writers in the Café venerating and praising his bravery.

He didn't, however, see many Writers rub their eyes a few dozen feet from the Café and stop to talk to a redwood pine for directions.

By Falstaff and the Beard. Jacund was a lack of self-confidence Writer. The Bouncer grinned as the Writer's protocols began to seep into his mind. He hadn't had an l.o.s-c Writer in a while. It might just turn out all right, after all. And if not, well, then, at least it wouldn't be painful.

Hopefully.

"Uh, sorry to bother you, sir, but could you tell me where the Subreality Café is? I'm sorta lost, you see, I'm a new Writer," Jacund puffed his chest out at that, not impressing the tree that he thought was a person in the least, "and I, uh, I got this invitation in the mail, I won't even bother trying to figure out how Subreality can cross over into the real world, gave my mom a bit of a start when she saw the return address, sorry, I tend to ramble when I'm nervous, and, well, anyway, could you point me in the right direction?"

The tree stood impassively, its leaves rustling slightly in the breeze. Then again, maybe they didn't. Or maybe they were covered in snow. Jacund still could not get over the fact that there was no reality whatsoever. He was quite positive that he saw a road fork three times in the same direction. And all the fictives and mainstream deviations! He had seen at least a dozen Remy LeBeaus, one Rem'allion Nermani, and one Ash. And when he had stumbled into the Villain's Bailiwick by accident during Unhappy Hour...well, his Writer status didn't exactly help keep him whole and healthy. It was only by extreme fortune and an overactive imagination on Jacund's part that a flock of flying geese had appeared and carried him away from fourteen rampaging Apocalypses and one Onslaught. At least the Sinisters weren't so bad. They had only prodded him...huh. Now that he thought about it, Jacund couldn't exactly remember where the Sinisters had examined him. Oh, well, mustn't have been all that bad.

"That's Subreality for you," Jacund said glumly, finally realizing that the tree wasn't going to talk. He Sighed again, noting again the difference between normal sighing and Sighing. It was all too much. With a gesture, Jacund had the Hands That Typed write his glasses into existence.

Suddenly, shimmering like a mirage in a desert (Jacund was intimately familiar with that type of optical illusion after what had become known as The Unfortunate Incident With The Gas Tank In Arizona), the Café appeared on the horizon.

Jacund wanted to weep for joy. Instead, he said "Yippee!!!" and called another flock of geese to take him to the Café.

"But I am a Writer! Look, see, I've got the trademark angst about me!"

"No, that's a Summers' requirement." The Bouncer sighed. Jacund envied him. He could actually sigh properly, without any of that capital 'S' stuff. "Look, Jacund," the Bouncer said, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, "I know you're a Writer. You know you're a Writer. [Expletive (nice touch, by the way, keeping the story G-rated)], you're the one who's writing this right now! But, for the sake of the fanfic, I've got to give you grief. And besides," he added, a bit condescendingly, "you've only written one fic. A one-shot. Which makes you a one-shot wonder. You didn't even write about a well-liked character."

"I'm not so sure about the wonder part," Jacund said glumly. It was something he did exceedingly well. "Look, hey, I'm currently writing this, right?"

"Right."

"Which means that I have omnipotence right about now, right?"

"Or at least as close as you'll ever get without being a fanboy or Kathie Lee Gifford."

"Kathie Lee...never mind. Not gonna ask. Anyway, so, in theory, I could, uh, please don't take this as offense, but, write you out of existence, right?"

The Bouncer suddenly straightened, and Jacund got the impression of terrible looming. Not just a towering stature, but a towering presence, a towering being, a great omnipresent, omnipotent force that pushed down on him, condemning him for his trangressions, like the feeling Jacund often got when he stood up at the wrong bits in church. "You know better than that," he said, quietly and dangerously in the same way that madmen say 'Have a nice day'. "There are rules. The Trinity is sacrosanct. And the persons of the Manager, occassionally the Bartender on bad days, the Cook, and myself are inviolable. We are more than singular creations. Didn't your Map tell you that? We belong to the whole of Subreality. Write any of us out of existence and you'll soon learn the meaning of the phrase 'Oh, my aching posterior condyloid foramen' as used by Laersyn and his Mauraders."

Jacund paled, a considerable feet on a tan complexion made tan by both Pacific-Asian blood and countless hours at Zuma Beach. "Oh, please no. I can't handle that, not that."

The Bouncer looked impressed. "You know what the posterior condyloid foramen is?"

"No, but I read 'Devil's Due' and I don't think I want to learn."

The Bouncer grinned, the first happy expression Jacund had written in for him. "Smart boy, Jacund. Smart boy. So, like I was saying, one-shot wonders, sorry. There's a special night for them, but that isn't today. That's next Tuesday. And hey, you're not forcing me to speak in monotones and monosyllabic morphemes, good for you. I even know what a morpheme is now."

Jacund shrugged, as if to indicate that morphemes could be arranged in the future and that, indeed, they held quiet interest for him. "Yeah, well, uh...I've got some stuff in the works!" he tried desperately, knowing as soon as his fingers hit the keyboard that that wouldn't work.

The Bouncer smiled again. "We all do, Jake. We all do."

"Jake?"

"Yeah, Jake. What's wrong with Jake? You take a name like Jacund, you're asking for a nickname. Be happy it's such a normal one. So, Jake, like I was saying, can't work. No can do."

Jacund paused for a moment, somewhere in his mind aware of the fact that, while he was indeed writing the fanfic, there were also laws in Subreality that no imagination could break. Then again, what cannot break must bend, or at least billow in the breeze...

"Excuse me? Bouncer?"

A regal figure stepped off of a...platypus...made of light. Jacund blinked loudly. A platypus? He had been expecting, oh, a stallion, or a tamed lion, or something powerful, wild, phallic, dramatic and utterly stupid. Not a platypus. This autonomous creations thing was getting weird.

"I'm going to get you for writing me on a platypus," Darqstar said grimly. "You didn't even ask for permission first, either. *Grumble*. You should be sorry."

"Yes, ma'am! Of course!"

The Bouncer knelt in the presence of Darqstar, whose shimmering robes fluttering in the wind. "Oh, Mistress, is he under your counsel?"

Darqstar paused for a moment, before her personal thought patterns were overridden by Jacund's fanfic protocol. "Yeah, why not? He sent his story to me, so let him be under my aegis. Let him in, Bouncer."

"Yes, oh Mistress!"

And, shooting Jacund a strange look halfway between hopeful compassion and grim death, Darqstar disappeared. The platypus puttered off obediently into the Subreality horizon. Faintly, Jacund could still hear Darqstar's voice, mumbling about being written out-of-character.

The Bouncer stayed kneeling for a few minutes before his mind got the better of him. He stood up, nonchalantly brushing himself off. "That was dirty," the Bouncer snapped at Jacund. "Bringing in an Upper Echelon, using their Avatar in non-self-written fics, just so you could get access to the Café." The Bouncer's expression turned strangely thoughtful for a moment. "Gets harder by the day, doing this job. You know the Bailiwick offered me a better position? 'High Lord Dark, Supreme Guardian of the Bailiwick'. A bit melodramatic, but what do you expect from those people. And I turned it down. Why? Because I love this job. But you know, this kind of thing, it totally ruins it. So go on, an Upper Echelon Writer has given you permission. But, I hope you know that you've totally just made me reevaluate my position at the Café."

Right about now, Jacund felt two feet tall. The Bouncer was only trying to do his job, for Feeder's sake! It was wrong of him to hurt the Bouncer like this. Gingerly, he sat down next to the Bouncer, who had collapsed to the sidewalk in a petulant little pout.

"Look, I'm sorry," Jacund said after a long while.

"You should be," the Bouncer sniffled.

"Oh, God. Are you crying?"

"No! Of course not!"

"You are! Oh my God. I've made you cry."

"Shut up! I am not! Just...just go in-insiiiiiiiidddddeeeee!!!"

The Bouncer broke down, having himself a steady and good cry. Jacund winced, not liking what he had written himself as. Damn it, he was a Writer; didn't they have some code somewhere that said something about being kind, virtuous, and just? Or if not that, then at least to be nice to fictives?

"Mr. Bouncer, sir, I'm sorry, really I am." With just the right pitch of voice, Jacund managed to let his apologetic feelings come tumbling out.

With a wet sniffle, the Bouncer wiped his nose on a hastily-created handkerchief. In accordance with general multiversal rules of politeness and comfort for the grieving, it was silk. In accordance with the multiversal laws of humor, it was polka-dotted with smily faces. "Nah, it's all right. Really, I was just over-reacting because you wrote me as such."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I sorta like you, actually. You're not half bad. At least you're not an egotistical oinker like some of the supercilious twits we get." The Bouncer's face darkened for a moment. Jacund was almost sure he heard some name muttered, something about shadows and fanboys. "Anway, go on." He gave Jacund a tip of the hand before going to stand by the door. Gallantly, he held it open for Jacund.

"You know, I've written some stuff before." He paused halfway through the door, turning to face the Bouncer. He raised an eyebrow quizically.

"Yes, and?"

"You're the first cognizant entity in any of my stories. It's almost as if I'm not writing you."

The Bouncer grinned, a surprisingly warm and open expression. "You thought you were writing me? I guess you sort of are. But not in the way that really counts."

Everything shifted. That was the first thing he noticed about the Café. What he thought was a highbacked arm chair flowed into a painfully tacky green lawnchair. Jacund winced, his internal fashion sense reeling at the sudden blow. Tsk.

A piercing mental command rang through his mind. **Believe, child, and make Subreality yours.**

**That you, Professor?**

**Indeed. I really shouldn't be here, though. It totally ruins--**

**Yes, I know, I know. Thanks anyway, Professor. And, Professor?**

**Yes, Jacund?**

**You're real, are you?**

A mental chuckle filled his mind. **In Subreality, Jacund? Ask if the wind blows, Jacund.**

Jacund nodded sagely; you could never be too sure in Subreality. And, last time he had checked, the wind was blowing outside. True, it was also snowing and scorchingly hot, but that was beside the point.

Tentatively, he sent out the mental equivalents of lassoes, corraling the slippery nodes of belief that made up the Café. Within moments, it had become a typical '50s-era diner. **I always did have a flair for the oldies,** Jacund thought with a smile.

Something in his stomach reminded Jacund of certain vital processes that most carbon-based lifeforms did. **Oh, bugger. I should have had a sandwich before I left.** He sidled up to the bar, flagging down the Manager.

The Manager was beyond even a Writer's influence. Too many people believed in the Manager for Jacund to even momentarily place gender. And his/her clothes didn't help much, either. Jacund had seen something like the Manager once. Face like a sexless Jim Carrey's, features always rearranging themselves. The hangover he had when he woke up was terrible. "Hi, um, I'm new here, I was wondering if I could have something to eat?" He paused, considering what to say next. These fictives were in a league so far beyond Jacund's ken, he felt awed just talking to them.

The Manager raised one cloudy eyebrow, hands busy in the act of wiping a sparkling wine flute. "In Subreality? You should be asking yourself what's the one thing you've always wanted to eat is."

"Really?"

The Manager nodded. "Whatever you want, you have. The whole purpose of Subreality. I might add, by the way, that this whole 'ominously, quietly powerful stranger' way you're writing me isn't really impressing me much."

Jacund blanched for a moment, his mind warring with the notion that, while he was currently writing the fanfic, the Manager had responded of his/her own volition about the way s/he was being written. "Uh, I'm sorry, really, I'm new at this whole self-awareness deal in fics, and..." Jacund flipped his hair grandly, in a way startlingly reminiscent of several Gambits. **Hey, I'm actually beginning to get the hang of this omnipotence thing.** "Uh, how would you like to be written?"

The Manager shrugged; not many Writers had the strange sort of mind to accept the mental loopholes and Rubik's cubes that dealing with autonomous, cognizant fictives. It was proving to be fun, dealing with this Jacund. "Oh, it doesn't really matter. Whatever I say in this fic, somebody's going to object to, so let's just leave things alone, eh?"

"Oh, uh, yes, of course."

"So, what'll it be?" Off to one side, a drunk Joseph began shoving an irate Gambit, accusing LeBeau of cheating at Old Maid. "Oh, damn. That's going to get ugly." Putting down the wine glass, the Manager hit a button that had somehow appeared by his/her hand. Jacund was fairly positive he hadn't written that. And he certainly didn't write the two disks of white that spread out from the two potential brawlers, wiping them out of existence.

"What was that?!!???" Jacund was aghast; the thought of uncreating someone's creations apalled him.

The Manager glanced askew at him, face drawn up in an incredulous mask. "What do you mean, what was that? You're a Writer, and you don't recognize Illyana's temporal disks?"

"Oh, Magik's ports? Oh, I should have guessed. So, um, can I get back to my order?"

"Certainly."

"Uh, just a chicken salad, please."

Shrugging, the Manager turned away. It looked like s/he wasn't going to play a major part in this fanfic. Oh, well. At least Jacund wasn't calling him/her the Bartender. Within moments, the chicken salad had appeared in a white nimbus of light before the Writer.

Jacund bent over his salad industriously, both disappointed and exhilarated by his first visit to the Café. Sure, he hadn't managed to write himself meeting any truly interesting characters, just one-dimensional gags and convenient plot devices, but he was in!

Suddenly, across the bar, appearing in his vision like an angel with gossamer wings, he saw her. She was...breathtaking. She was beautiful, beautiful, too beautiful to be real. Of course, that's what Subreality was all about-making what wasn't real real.

Her hair tumbled down her back in a short wave, falling to about past her shoulders, shimmering multihued in the low light of the Café. She was garbed in a plain pair of denims, like him, and a short white shirt that hugged her figure like a glove. She was reading a book, Jacund couldn't tell what it was, and her lips curled up in a slight smile as she came across a particularly interesting part. She was a catharsis, revelation, divine sign that perfection existed.

Jacund wanted to go to her, to talk to her, to see who she was, to find out if she liked Matthew Sweet and Third Eye Blind and the Beatles and cats and rainy days and playing basketball and tennis and baseball in the rain and watching old episodes of "I Love Lucy" and soppy movies like "Benny and June" and to find out if she was perfect, oh so perfect as she seemed. He rose from his stool, his face unconsciously rearranging itself.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Jacund spun around on his heel, and came face-to-face with the Scribe.

"Oh my God."

"You're close," a random Bobby Drake called out from a booth. Half a dozen Emmas giggled, while ten more telepathically jabbed him.

"Don't do it," Kielle said, her voice thick and melodic. It sounded like an electric bass, humming with power and life.

"But, she's perfect! Look at her!"

Kielle nodded gravely, as if that were all that she needed to say. "Precisely. Aren't you wondering why?"

Jacund reluctantly nodded. It was true that people generally made themselves more aesthetically pleasing in the Café. "I don't care," he said resolutely. "Ma'am," he added belatedly.

Kielle smiled. "Well, I like you, Jacund. Or at least, the Avatar you're using right now does. And I know her. We all do. Trust me, she's not worth it. She's a fictive. She's not real."

He gaped at her. Not real? Not real? "But...in this place, what is?" He wrenched free from her grasp, arms windmilling dramatically. The dramatic impact of the action was lessened when his arm slammed into a tabletop, causing Jacund to wince and shake his hand in the air for a moment. Every instinct in Jacund's body rebelled at yelling at Kielle, yelling at someone he revered and worshipped, but...some things just had to be said. "The...the whole purpose of Subreality to make things real! Why shouldn't I take a chance?" His voice raised in pitch, and slowly, the rest of the Café quieted down. Dramatic cries of love were not uncommon in the Café, especially after Euphoric Hour. "Look, look around at us! At the Writers!" Several heads swivelled at this, glaring myopically out of amber-colored glasses. "In real life, how many of us are us? How many of us are our Avatars, are fire-breathing dragons and incarnations of ultimate evil and incredibly cute 20-year old Canadians?" From somewhere in the shadows, two sibilant hisses and a narrowing of stunningly gorgeous eyes brought chuckles to a table of Writers. "We're not real! We're Avatars, and we can find solace here that we can't find in real life. We, ourselves, are as real as our fictives, here in Subreality. So what if I think a fictive is stunning?" Jacund soon realized that a gulf was opening before him, and his mouth was like a bulldozer with sticks marked ACME wrapped around it. Writer/fictive romances were...odd, to say the least. "I can find happiness with her that I couldn't ever find in real life, happiness that I couldn't ever find with the cheerleaders and basketball players and bimbos and bookworms and other strange people that I've dated! So what if this is a little different, just let me have my peace..."

Jacund stopped, even the calm presence of the Professor having deserted him. Every eye in the Café was upon him, staring at him, boring holes in him.

Finally, the Scribe smiled, a wan sort of smile that was at odds with the look in her eyes. Was it hope that he saw in those eyes? And was it just Jacund, or did her eyes flicker for the briefest of instances to a LeBeau? "I understand, Jacund. Good luck." A quiet trill of trumpets, a flare of white light, and Kielle was gone.

"Well, what's everybody staring at?" Jacund squeaked in what he chose to believe was an authoritative tone of voice. Choosing to ignore everybody's stares, Jacund walked up to her. She had put the book down and was staring at him with her brilliant eyes. She reached up and tucked a shock of glossy hair behind her ear.

"Um, hi, I was wondering, well, I'm a Writer, and no that's stupid, uh, and well, could I buy you maybe a slice of cheesecake?" **Real smooth, Jacund, you sound like Joseph. About as three-dimensional as a cardboard cutout.**

She nodded, a warm smile spread across her face. Heartened by this, Jacund sat down beside her. "Hi, I'm Jacund," he said brightly, extending one hand to her.

She shook it tightly, that dazzling smile still on her face. "Hi, I'm Mary Sue."

Okay, I've got some more disclaimers, I think. Uh, every Writer I mention belongs to themself, I won't even try to do justice to the slew of funny things that I could say about each Writer. I mean, come on, with Abyss and his slippers alone the possibilities are endless...The Manager (occassionally the Bartender) and the Bouncer belong to Falstaff, the Café was created by the Trinity, the Trinity belongs to Themselves, all praise and glory. Sandy Dalal is a male model, check out People's "Fifty Most Beautiful", don't ask, loooong private joke, but I do sort of look like him. Really, I do. Sort of. Rem'aillon Nermani (spelling?) belongs to Valerie Jones. I think Ash belongs to Lori McDonald, I'm not so sure. Third Eye Blind, Matthew Sweet, and the Beatles (do you need to know who the Beatles are?) are all bands that I enjoy immensely (God, did I just use the word immensely in good conscience? *Shudder*). "I Love Lucy" belongs to the ages. "Benny and June" is, quite possibly, the most romantic movie I have ever seen, what can I say, I'm a big old softie. Mary Sue belongs to us all. Uh, forgive me if this story sounds weird, I'm writing this after some seriously grounded-in-reality stuff, and it's just pure escapism. Feedback would be nice, if you would be so kind. I think that's it, so thanks for reading my madness.

-Jacund